


It isn't much fun for One, but Two.

by Kt_fairy



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, the beginning of a beautiful friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23495134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: "I say!" Henry harrumphed when a chair thumped down on the deck next to him, and shifted in his seat to look up at the culprit. Who so happened to be Lieutenant Fitzjames. He was leaning one hand on the back of the chair, the other resting on his hip, and had a shockingly handsome smile on his face as he raised an eyebrow at Henry. "Oh, good morning Lieutenant.""Good morning, Mr Le Vesconte," Fitzjames said brightly, somehow not being jostled by all those milling around noisily in the wardroom. "Might I join you?"ORThe Dundy and Fitzjas origin story
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames & Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Comments: 24
Kudos: 33





	It isn't much fun for One, but Two.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gwerfel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/gifts).



> For MsKingBean89 - the Jas to my Dundy, and the Dundy to my Jas.
> 
>   
> \- can be read as part of the 'Let the river rush in' series, but stands on it's own just as well.
> 
> Title taken from Us Two by A A Milne.

The rain had been coming down in solid, impenetrable sheets for about two days now.

Everything was soaked. Where the pitch coating the ropes had flaked away, the hemp had swollen to such a size that it had split the tar, leaving the rigging eerily deformed where it hung heavily from the bare masts. The deck of _HMS Excellent_ was a slippery liability in the pitch darkness, water pouring down from the jutting edge of the quarterdeck in waterfalls like those James had seen in Switzerland as a child, . 

James had allowed those men and marines on duty for the First Watch to shelter underneath that overhang to get some relief from the weather. They huddled into their drenched clothes in shivering silence, watching rippling squalls of wind and rain rush over Portsmouth harbour from the Solent. 

Coming off watch was little relief from the rain. The lower deck was covered in sawdust and buckets to catch the tarry drips coming in through the upper deck. Hammocks were hung in a disordered manner as the men tried to find a dry patch, and there was an all purveying smell of wet dog and wool. 

At the bottom of the ladder James shared a grim look with Fletcher, whose Middle Watch was announced with a roll of thunder, and went to oversee the men of his watch taking their tot of hot rum that was left in the galley for those braving this sour weather. 

Duties done, he hurried off towards the wardroom and its stove, that was kept burning high to try and expel the damp. He was too cold and tired to care much about the puddles he left in his wake as he strode down the immaculately scrubbed passageways. His mind so turned towards warmth that his entrance to the silent, deserted wardroom was announced by the clatter of the bucket he almost tripped over.

“Oh shh-ff- _Bugger_!”

James would have aimed a kick at the damned thing if a heavy drip had not splatted onto his shoulder. He sighed as he bent to place the bucket back into its place, the sound of a chair moving over the deck snapping his attention over to the far corner of the long, bookshelf lined room, and James corrected his posture when he realised he was not alone.

“I say, rough old night to be on watch.”

“Foul,” James agreed as he watched Mr Le Vesconte step around the corner of the large table that dominated two-thirds of the wardroom, looking ready to jump into action if needed. “Be little better if they dipped us all one by one into the harbour.” James removed his soaked cap and went to hang it with the others above the stove, tossing Ned's out of the way to make room, and then turned to his boat cloak. “I certainly feel as if I have been.”

His fingers were half frozen, joints stiff, and he felt embarrassment creep up his back as Mr Le Vesconte watched him fumble with the pewter fastening at his neck.

“I sa -,” he began, then stepped towards James. “Would you care for some aid with your cloak, lieutenant?” 

“Ah, very decent of you,” James said after having one last go at salvaging his pride, dropping his hands to his side as Le Vesconte took up the task.

_Excellent_ was unlike any ship James had ever served on in that there were so many officers crammed aboard her, and the duty roster so complicated, that you could hardly get to know anyone well without making the effort to. James had a lesson or two with Mr Le Vesconte, and of course there was ship wide gunnery practice, but Le Vesconte tended to keep to himself, or within the circle of the few other mates who Captain Hastings had thought merited a place in his gunnery school. He was quiet and conscientious, so much so that it was easy to forget that there was a striking sort of handsomeness to him, with his high cheekbones and noble features. He might have been younger than James, if one went by his bearing and the smoothness of his skin, but the few strands of grey threading through his thick dark hair confused the matter somewhat. 

James’ sodden cloak and dress coat were removed and set up by the stove and James pulled up a chair to huddle in close to the heat. He leaned sideways in order to wring his hair out onto the floor, glancing up at Le Vesconte who was standing near the table looking a little uncertain.

Le Vesconte smiled shortly when he saw James looking, then blurted out, "I might offer to fetch a flannel, but damfino where they get tucked away… I suppose if I did, I might be mistaken for the ship’s hairdresser."

It was such an incongruous thing to say that James found himself laughing before he thought to stifle it in respect of the hour.

He shot Le Vesconte a smile. "I wonder, what rank would a ship's hairdresser hold?"

The man blinked. "One would need certificates, I am sure," he said haltingly, moving half a step backwards. "Only a few could be trusted with such a task."

"Ah," James chuckled. "It's an awful vanity I know, to have long hair," James said conversationally, relieved when Le Vesconte came a step closer again. "When I first went to sea I failed to cut it for three years, as boys are wont to do, and when I returned home I had hair like a girl."

"I say!" Le Vesconte breathed, the light catching the amusement in his eyes as he leant his hip on the table.

"My aunt still has a lock of it somewhere," James mused to himself, leaving his hair to hold his hands to the stove.

"I - well," Le Vesconte hesitated again, rocking back on his feet, and James was struck by the fact that the man might be a little shy. "I shouldn't say habit quite counts as vanity though, eh?"

“Quite," James smiled. "But a year or two ago I caught malaria, and they cut my hair very short while I suffered from the fevers. I looked a horror.”

James had no idea why he was prattling on about his hair, nor why Le Vesconte was being polite enough to listen. He shook his hands to try and dispel how they began to sting as they warmed, flexing the stiff joints, and looked across the room to the single candle that lit a pile of books and papers, and a plate with what looked like a half eaten bun, where Le Vesconte had been sitting.

"You are awake rather late, Mr Le Vesconte. What do you labour over?"

"Oh," he glanced back towards the candlelight, his amusement fading a little. “Captain Hastings is allowing the mates to do extra work on navigations and chart readings so we might be able to pass at a higher mark.”

“That is commendable!”

“Thank you. I have duty before our lessons tomorrow, you see, so thought to ensure all was ship shape now,” he explained.

“Well, I am no genius, but I understand things well enough. I might take a look at it, if you like?” James offered modestly, thinking it was no bad thing to do a good deed for someone who was not yet competition for promotion, and who might owe him a valuable favour later on. 

“You have just come from watch, I could not possibly,” Le Vesconte demurred, and James took that to be modesty also. The other men in the gunnery school all wanted some of his charm and good looks, as well as the flair he had for the subjects taught to them. They all wanted a bit of the success that seemed to be finally on James’ horizon.

“And you have early watch tomorrow. What sort of lieutenant would I be if I let you go on duty half asleep, eh?”

Le Vesconte frowned at him, and James eased his posture in case he was coming across too heavy handed. “Thank you, no. I shall be all right.”

James blinked, a spark of outrage in the back of his mind at his help being denied.

“Anyway,” Le Vesconte continued as he backed away around the table. “I am afraid all those formulas and such do not stay in my head awfully well. I would not keep you for that, lieutenant.”

“Nonsense! Le Vesconte, I have _seen_ you at practice. It cannot be that bad.”

Le Vesconte looked startled, and it was James’ turn to shrink back. 

He did not know James. This was the first time they had ever had a conversation, and James was practically ordering Le Vesconte to let James be gracious and charitable. He had every right to be reticent; men who behaved like James was in this moment were usually unkind and superior, and James felt like an arrogant arse.

“I am being an ungrateful wretch, I am sorry,” Le Vesconte said in a hurry, leaning over the table to pick up a crisp sheet of paper. “I should be very glad for any assistance, Lieutenant Fitzjames.”

“I should not have insisted,” James said, almost not taking the paper out of embarrassment. 

“You are simply being kind.”

James looked up at Le Vesconte’s earnest, slightly nervous expression, and regretted that kindness had only been one of his motives. 

“I simply wish for all to do as well as they might,” he lied as he glanced at the sheet of untidy writing. “Now,” James summoned the most friendly smile he could as he looked up at Le Vesconte. “Mind you are not late for your watch tomorrow.”

* ***** *  
  
  


It was a damned foolish thing to have done, hand over his work like that to a fellow he did not know. He had thought it as soon as he hauled himself into his hammock last night.

Lieutenant Fitzjames was not an unpleasant man by any stretch. In fact he was only ever the most courteous to all he spoke to, be they the mates or his fellow lieutenants, and deigned to share a joke with any man who was of such a disposition. He was also not above a practical jape or two - Henry had even joined in the one he played on Charlewood that had ended with half of the wardrooms' glassware shattered on the deck - and Henry worried in the night, and then worried for most of Morning Watch, that he might end up at the centre of one now.

Fitzjames was never cruel with his japes, but in Henry’s experience dashing, effortlessly intelligent men such as he were not always so gentle about another man’s lack of eloquence or charming wit. 

Henry was pleasant enough to have avoided most of the teasing the vile boys in school or the other young gentlemen aboard ships tended to dish out. In fact, Henry thought as he stared into his half drunk cup of tea, the chattering din of the crowded, post-breakfast wardroom swirling about him like the fast moving, heavy cloud outside of the windows, there might be little more to him that pleasantness and a sense of duty. And he wondered how he would ever show his face amongst these fine officers if he was ever revealed to be dull and wanting.

"Vesconte!"

Henry - who was used to his name being chopped about in a hundred different ways - turned his attention up to the other mates he was sitting with. "Sorry, say again?"

"Are you thinking about supper again, Vezcontey?" Mr Shaw tutted, flicking overly shiny brown hair out of his eyes.

"I was asking," Mr Barnett said in his soft voice, more suited to a country parish than a gun deck. "Where abouts your study for Hastings is?"

"Oh, I -"

"You haven't lost it, have you?" Mr Shaw all but sneered, and Henry was about to get rather short with him when a chair thumped down on the deck next to him.

"I say!" Henry harrumphed, shifting in his seat to look up at the culprit. Who so happened to be Lieutenant Fitzjames. He was leaning one hand on the back of the chair, the other resting on his hip, and had a shockingly handsome smile on his face as he raised an eyebrow at Henry. "Oh, good morning Lieutenant."

"Good morning, Mr Le Vesconte," Fitzjames said brightly, somehow not being jostled by all those milling around noisily in the wardroom. "Might I join you?"

"Indeed," Henry agreed quickly, noticing the surprise on his companions’ faces as Fitzjames stepped around the chair in one long legged stride and gracefully flicked out the trails of his dress coat as he sat.

Everyone on board got on well enough, but the ranks tended not to mix unless they had to or an acquaintance already existed. And now Henry was being joined by one of the most well liked, dashing officers aboard _Excellent._ (If not, he had heard it said, the _entire_ Navy.)

"Good morning, gentlemen," Fitzjames said with a nod to the mates who all chorused it back to him like a class of midshipmen, and he pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper from his pocket to smooth out over his knee. "It's as fine a work as I knew it might be. I only made an edit or two," he explained, pointing out where a tidy change had been made in a remarkable approximation of Henry's handwriting. "I hope you do not mind the liberty?"

"Oh no, not at all. Thank you," Henry nodded to Fitzjames. "I am indebted to you, sir."

"Of course not. It was splendid before I laid eyes on it," he said with a wave of his hand, tossing a lock of his lustrous, nut brown hair from his eyes in the effortlessly artful way that Shaw could dream of emulating. "May I say, you have a fine talent for calculations,"

"As do we all. I say, it is a wonder we don't all run about speaking in numbers and formulas all day," Henry said, cringing at how inane his words were.

"Captain Hastings would surely appreciate the dedication," Fitzjames said, a disarmingly warm look on his face. 

"A dedication that, if passed to us, should surely see us to be the finest gunners upon the oceans,” Barnett put in gently, and Fitzjames thumped his thigh in agreement.

“Hear hear,” he said loudly to be heard over the swell in conversation behind them. “Well said. We should only be dreaming of shot and Euclidean principals!”

“Why, what an exotic name for a sweetheart, Jas,” was announced from above them, and Lieutenant Charlewood dropped down heavily enough into Fitzjames' lap to make him grunt. He was no taller than Henry, but then few were, and sported a fine head of fair hair on top of his deceptively angelic, ruddy face. For Charlewood was a perfectly amiable fellow until roused, and was the only man Henry had ever seen beat a topman in an arm wrestle. " _Euclidean,_ sounds like she might be from the York Shires. What do you think, Vescond?"

"I - "

"I am not a chair!" Fitzjames protested, shoving ineffectually at Charlewood.

"Speak up, Vescond?"

"I should say more southerly than York."

Charlewood's straight brow pulled into a frown, allowing himself to be jostled by Fitzjames. "...Lincoln?"

"Ned, you lump. Get off me!" Fitzjames huffed. He had a tense look on his flushed face, almost pinched, which Henry found to be understandable. On a ship one came to treasure your own space, and Charlewood was a rather sturdy fellow.

"Now lieutenant, I must protest," Henry put in, hoping he would not be taken for a fool as he played along. "Firstly, that Lincoln is _hardly_ south. Secondly, Euclidean is _obviously_ a name from Devonshire. And thirdly, that it is terrible bad form to crush a fellow to death as you are."

"There you are! A lump!" Fitzjames declared with a laugh, gaze trailing after Charlewood when he stood. 

"Quite right! I would be sent down for injuring the finest walker in the service."

"As you should!" Fitzjames batted at him, eyes bright, then threw one leg over the over as he leaned in towards Henry. "Terribly sorry to make such a show in front of your friends."

Henry glanced over at the mates who were looking on politely or talking amongst themselves. He was friendly with most of them, but not enough to stem the loneliness that came on when he had no work or duty to attend to. Henry had always liked this sort of friendly teasing and merry making, had been the centre of it amongst the gang of boys down in Devon, and he worried that he was rather too keen to join in. 

“Even the most dour of fellows enjoys a skylark, once in a while. Or I should hope they do.”

Fitzjames’ brows raised ever so slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth that was quickly wiped away as he straightened. 

“Good lord, Vescond. One should hope” Charlewood scoffed, pulling out his scratched pocket watch as he turned to shout at the rest of the wardroom. “Those without duty, we have lessons! Hop to it, I’m not getting a dressing down for you, Maitland!”

“You are attending the talk on the chemistry of gunpowder, this morning?” Henry asked as they stood, tucking his study safely into his pocket.

“I am, and shall be glad to remain below decks,” Fitzjames said with a purposeful look out of the windows at the falling drizzle.

“Quite,” Henry agreed. They stood in silence for a moment or two while waiting for the room to clear in front of them, Henry wishing he could think of something to say before things became awkward.

“Do the chemical principles interest you?” James asked casually, as if the silence had been for but a second.

“I should say. It all interests me,” Henry said earnestly, having never quite caught on to the fashion of affected nonchalance amongst the other officers when it came to their work. 

“Very good,” Fitzjames sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You can keep me awake. Spent a while last night looking for the ship’s hairdresser,” he said in an undertone, and Henry had to look away unless he burst out laughing.

#### * ***** *

He had not expected to see Henry again tonight. And certainly not almost slipping down the stone steps leading to the jetty barely two hours after James had left him in the company of a very pretty black haired barmaid.

James went to catch him, but Henry managed to right himself, giving James a big, drunken smile as he did so. “I say, Fitzjas my lad. _What a night_!”

James laughed at the sight of him, feeling very fond towards him, and put Henry’s arm around his shoulders to help him along the greasy wooden jetty towards the skiff that he had hired to take him back to _Excellent._ “You are a merry fellow, Henry.”

“I should say. Sally was a frightfully accommodating young lady, in possession of many charms. One being access to the black strap,” Henry came to an abrupt halt when they reached the skiff, blinking down at the two broad-shouldered ladies sitting at the oars who were watching them with stern eyes and weather beaten faces. “Good evening, ladies! My don’t you look well!”

“Evenin’ sir,” they chorused back, remaining unimpressed and un-charmed. 

“I have some money, or,” he rooted about in his greatcoat and pulled out a great chunk of cold meat pie wrapped in a cloth. “May I offer you this instead.”

“Where on earth did you get that?” James asked, at a loss for how Henry found half of the food he would produce from his pockets. 

“Sally gave it to me for a job well done. She liked the way my whiskers tickled her,” Henry whispered a little loudly, and the women in the skiff burst into cackles of laughter so loud that James began to blush. 

“Oh, _you_ can ride fer free, my fine young sir,” the older one said gently, leaning one powerful forearm on the jetty as she smiled up at Henry around the pipe in her mouth. “Don’t let the _thought_ of coin vex ye.”

“Oh, terribly decent of you, madam!” Henry declared, made to hop off the jetty, then thought better of it. “Fitzjames, be a brick.”

James, who was not all that steady on his feet himself, dropped into the skiff. It wayed on the water at his added weight, and while he waited for his balance to settle the ladies stood to help Henry down with almost rakish attentiveness.

"I say old boy, hope you don't mind my going off with Sally," Henry sighed as they pulled away from the noise and the glow of Portsmouth and out into the thick black harbour that was dotted with the watch lights from the ships at anchor.

"Not at all, Henry," James said as he pulled his collar up around his face to keep out the biting chill.

"Have," Henry began, then realised he was still holding the pie and put it back into his pocket. "You ever gone off with her?"

"No. You're one of the lucky few," James glanced at the women who were watching them with no small amount of amusement as they pulled easily at the oars. "Not taking payment makes her discerning."

"Well." Henry patted him heavily on the back. "I hope you were not without company."

"I was not," James assured him, thinking of the ache in his hips and the twinge at the back of his throat. "I found some perfectly un-respectable company while you were raiding the pantry of the Ship and Castle."

Henry did not ask for more information than that. He was remarkably un-interested in either sharing or listening to the sordid goings on of sailors, which left the details James had prepared in case he was pressed quite redundant. Henry just sighed contentedly, and leant against James as he looked up at the stars.

Henry was very easy company, and even easier to get along with. He was earnest while being great deal of fun, and took everyone as they came while expecting very little from them - and certainly not the dash and wit that James had become known for.

There was no performance or gloss to Henry, and as much as it burned James up inside that he had no need to be anything but he was, James could not help but be charmed by him.

#### * ***** *

“Would you look at that!” Fitzjames cried, glancing away from the distant explosion of the Congreve rocket, a smile bright in his eyes. “What a bang!”

“Positively thunderous!” Henry agreed, “Quite a nice explosion too.”

“Yes, the sparks were almost pretty,” Fitzjames said as he puffed on the taper to keep it smouldering. “I think we might lower the elevation half a degree and still safely drop short of hitting Gosport?”

Henry consulted their book of calculations, aware of Captain Hastings’ keen eyes watching him from only a half dozen yards away. 

The captain was so impressed with Fitzjames’ competence and skill in those things he taught that he had allowed him to move on to the Congreve rockets before all others, offering him the choice of who would man them alongside him. 

Charlewood was the obvious choice, but he had pronounced the rockets devilish as soon as Fitzjames had turned to him, declaring that he wanted nothing to do with them. It seemed Henry was then the next logical option, and that Captain Hastings had consented to him moving to the rockets before so many lieutenants still bemused him no end. 

Henry was always determined to do well, but especially now that the captain and most of the other officers and crew were watching him. He would have been nervous of misreading James’ hand or of his own maths failing him, thus sending thirty pounds of rocket hurtling into someone's field and spreading mutton liberally about the countryside, but Fitzjames’ confident enthusiasm was infectious, and not as reckless as it seemed. 

Fitzjames was gallant and daring, but only because he knew his strengths and was intelligent enough to work around his weakness. At least that was his approach to gunnery, which Henry had come to know from their conversations which were maybe not as thrilling as letting off great roaring rockets, but were equally engaging.

“Half a degree, aye. I think so,” Henry agreed, tucking the book into the back of his trousers as he bent to set another rocket into its frame and adjust its angle. He let Fitzjames check it, took the taper from him, and set it to the fuse, hurrying back out of the way as the rocket sparked and bellowed and made a great fuss before shooting off like a greyhound released from the slips.

It exploded as close to the far side of the harbour as one might dare, and they turned to one another and laughed in triumph. 

#### * ***** *

This evening the wardroom felt both lively, as those with passes to go ashore primped themselves ready to go ashore in Portsmouth, and as sedate as a genteel front parlour as those without looked to their work or kept themselves quietly entertained. 

Henry was going through his signal book, paying no mind to James who was sitting with his feet on the spindle of Henry's chair, flicking through one of Henry's Marryat novels.

"I say," James spoke up as he inspected the inscription on the front page. "What's the TD stand for in your initials, might I ask?"

"Thomas Dundas," Henry replied absentmindedly. "My father's captain at Trafalgar."

James looked up at that, surprised Henry had not mentioned it before. Anyone with an association with that great and tragic day liked to have it known, and nearly every sailor - crew or officer - were keen to hear any tale a man might have. 

Several of those about them also turned towards Henry, who of course did not notice, so James gave his chair a kick to get him to look about. 

"Your father was at Trafalgar, Vescond?" someone asked, which drew even more attention.

"Yes. _HMS Naiad._ Well, they weren't in the battle, as such,” Henry explained cheerfully enough. “ _Naiad_ is only a fourth rate, far too small to go toe to toe with those great grand ladies in the line of battle, but she took a prize all the same. Covered herself in glory and all that."

"A prize at Trafalgar!"

"You kept that quiet, old boy!"

"Tell us about it," Ned, who was always pleased to be distracted from writing to his mother, called from the other side of Maitland who was methodically peeling an orange.

"Did your father start out with the English, or did he change sides once he gaged the tide of battle?"

James rolled his eyes over to Greville-Fox who was standing away over by the stove looking very proud of himself for that observation, a strong hand on his hip and a snide smile on his ridiculous face that was crowned in soft, curling golden hair - a feature that no man had deserved less.

"Don't be like that, Charles," Fletcher spoke up, the mood on the room shrinking.

“Well! With a name like that, thought he’d have been on Boney’s side”

"Now see here!" Henry protested.

"As my father says - a Frenchie is a Frenchie, and a foreigner is no good!"

James was on his feet at once, and so was Ned; he was a kindly man, but his moral compass was as firm as his temper was quick, and despite his aquaintance with Henry only coming through James his sense of fairness would demand that he act. Even if it was rashly. 

James reached out to grab Ned by the shoulder and shoved him back down into his seat. He took a moment to force his anger, and more importantly his hurt, down, before shooting a look at Greville-Fox. "Do not be foul just because your father missed the battle.”

"I do not recall a _Fitzjames_ being there either.”

Maitland, who had ducked down in his seat when James had grabbed for Ned, cradled his half peeled orange to his chest and scurried out of the way.

“No. It is a land locked family,” James shot back with forced lightness. “I am the apple that dropped into the ocean.”

“My family is from the _Channel Islands_ ,” Henry snapped from behind James. “Damn your eyes. I am as English as you, _sir_!”

“And I’m for shore," Greville-Fox said with an insufferable nonchalance, ending the scene with as much ease as he began it. "The doxies need their exercising before they go wild, eh.”

James made a point of not laughing while everyone else tittered in nervous amusement, all except Ned, who was still bristling, and Fletcher, who was looking on in firm disapproval.

"You have no duty tonight, Fitzjames," Greville-Fox asked as lightly as if their acquaintance had not been sour since Malta. "Will you not venture to shore again?"

"I would not rob you of your hard won attention from the whores."

A murmur went through Greville-Fox's friends (James would call them followers, but such a remark might very easily be turned about on him) but he remained infuriating and did not rise to it. "Charity itself," he said cooly, eyes passing James to look at Henry. “I would commend you for taking on a charitable act, but you do have a preference for the _French ways_ of doing things.”

A chorus of protests went up, that quickly turned into yells when Ned lunged across the room. Which was when the scuffle broke out.

#### * ***** *

Henry had never been a fracas before. Nor had he ever been given a dressing down by his captain - plenty from nagging lieutenants and superior boatswains, but not a _captain_ \- and he had no idea how he was going to tell his father!

Hopefully he would understand the loyalty of comrades, and not be too disappointed when he read that Henry had become involved in the shoving match because Fitzjames had been pushed while pulling Charlewood back. Henry had no idea why the man had taken such affront on his behalf, Henry only spent any time in his company because of Fitzjames, and neither did Henry approve of his lashing out, even if it did feel rather gratifying to have someone stand in your corner like that.

They had all been given two weeks of double watches as punishment for ungentlemanly conduct. Henry felt like eight hours of the gusting wind blowing a fine salt water drizzle into his face, while the sullen lieutenant who he shared the watch with cleared out his sinuses with great gusto and frequency, was awful enough to make him behave immaculately for the rest of his career.

The marine on watch, a strapping young corporal, could not quite keep the disgust off his face as Lieutenant Wilson hawked over the side yet again. Henry caught the marines’ eye and motioned for him to clear off and walk the deck - supposing that one’s own suffering made one keen to alleviate it in others. 

“It could be far worse, I suppose, sir,” Henry said when five bells forenoon watch was rung, trying yet again to converse with Wilson in the hope it would break up the monotony. “We could be out here all night, eh?”

Wilson huffed, working his jaw. “It is your _friend’s_ fault we are here at all,” he said shortly, finally getting to the root of his surliness with Henry. “Fitzjames is a fine fellow, yes, but sometimes he has far too much chat for his own good.”

“My _friend_?” Henry frowned, ducking into his cloak. 

Charlewood was Fitzjames’ friend - they had known one another for years, had seen things and places that Henry had only read of in school and had no clear image of until Fitzjames described them to him. And that was when they were not laughing about incomprehensible things that Fitzjames would then explain to Henry while still amused, smiling wide when Henry laughed.

That had all stopped after the unpleasantness, of course. Fitzjames had withdrawn himself greatly from all company, not just Henry’s, but it had only proved what Henry had been conscious of all along, even during the japes and long conversations about Marryat or other such silly things. Henry was as Greville-Fox had said - a charitable acquaintance. A mate who was not yet competition for the postings and promotions that would come after they passed their gunnery exams. 

“I did not mean - I say, do ignore Charles’ vile insinuation. Not a single one of us thinks such a thing.” Wilson’s manner warmed quickly, even as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. ”Something happened between them on Malta, and they do tend to snap and snarl at one another. Involving you in it was poorly done, I will admit, but you and Fitzjames have rather become fast friends.”

“I - well… ”

“I did not think he could stop being _oh so_ charming and funny long enough to bother to get to know a person, let alone -”

“I say, sir. I must object!” Henry protested, horrified at the frankness of Wilson’s dislike for a fellow Henry found to be perfectly likeable.

Wilson snapped his mouth shut as if just realising his indiscretion. He looked about before moving closer to Henry who had to stop himself from stepping back in disgust. “He is a fine officer, and a fine gunner, and perfectly genial. I apologise.”

“Very well,” Henry muttered, wrapping his cloak tighter about himself. “Even if he were not apparently my friend, I should not care for the way you spoke of a fellow officer!”

Wilson nodded, and they went back to silence for a little while. “There was a ridiculous flap when you two became chummy - it was like my sisters when anything at all happens in the village,” Wilson grumbled, and Henry wondered how he had missed all this. He knew Fitzjames was a rising star and such, but that must be hyperbole surely - he was _only_ a third lieutenant after all. Yet as Henry’s papa had said when insisting he remain in school until he was sixteen, men who had been in the Navy since they were children had a very strange view of the world. 

“Anyway,” Wilson sighed after clearing out his sinuses once again. “You have done well by getting in with him and Charlewood. They are set to get the best postings, and such men always take their friends with them and off into the gazettes.”

“Which would be generous of them,” Henry murmured, somewhat unfooted by this innocuous - if gossiping - conversation.

“Well,” Wilson sniffed loudly. “I am going to the head. You have the watch, Mr Vesconte.”

“Sir.”

“Be all right, will you?”

“I think I should be able to repel boarders if a seagull comes to bother me.” 

Wilson gave him a tired look as he stomped off. Maybe Henry had been little too cheeky, but his Flabber was still rather Gasted. 

#### * ***** *

After endless days of rain and wind and thick grey cloud, the sun coming out was something of a blessing. On the way to his lessons James had looked up at the brittle blue sky through the hatch, and felt some of his worries lessen in the way only sunshine seemed able to manage.

It was as much enjoyment as he would get from the fine weather today. Captain Hastings had limited access to the weather deck to only those on duty or for gunnery practice, and as much as James wished to feel the gentle warmth of the sun on his face after weeks of driving rain, he accepted the discipline without complaint.

Their behaviour in the wardroom last week was indeed unacceptable. James should have known better, as an officer and a gentleman, than to let his temper be roused by childish jabs. 

Le Vesconte was perfectly capable of defending himself, and it would do James’ advancement and success in the navy no good if Captain Hastings decided to record the incident. Yet James did not regret it, for he would have been a poor _English_ gentleman if he did not defend _his_ friend when Ned had been prepared to thrash the villain on Le Vesconte’s behalf. 

James had spoken to neither Ned nor Henry about the incident; Ned because he had, typically, found the whole thing hilarious once he had calmed down, and Henry because… well, because those barbs that had not been thrown at James still had stung him more. And then there were insinuations that _had_ been flung at him, by a man who knew the unproven whispers from James' much less careful youth. It had been such a very _vile_ and _unconscionable_ thing to imply that it had been as if a grenade had been thrown into the wardroom, and James knew that all would want to distance themselves from the mere mention of that crime.

Henry was a decent sort, from a good naval family, and rather than face disapproval from one who was always so very warm to all about him, James had stepped back. It was not the sort of bravery and daring that he had cultivated over the past twelve years, but James hid himself behind gunnery, and refused to be coaxed out from behind it by any talk or joke. 

He doubted his sudden studiousness had been noticed at all, as everyone had applied themselves to their work; the wardroom now quiet in the evenings and sedate at meal times. The most activity there had been for days was the gunnery practice currently being carried out up on the weather deck. The rumble of the cannon’s wheels a constant sound as James concentrated on his note taking, their instructor pausing expertly mid sentence every time a broadside went off that had _Excellent_ swaying in her moorings. 

It was of little comfort, but James supposed that those enjoying the sun at this moment would no doubt end up as sodden with sweat as James would likely be with rain when the storm clouds returned for tomorrow's practice. He said as much to Fletcher when they were released as the rosta for Afternoon Watch was called, and Fletcher demanded everyone touch the bulkhead and turn three times lest it come true. 

James let himself be pulled into that, running about along with the others who had been in the class, amusing the sailors and those coming down from the deck no end.

The spinning had been completed, with Maitland almost tripping over a cannon (which had caused much hilarity), and James' attention was caught by Henry jumping down the last few steps of the ladder. 

He was flushed from effort, exercise shirt stuck to the shape of his powerful shoulders with sweat, thick dark hair in merry disarray. James thought that if Sally of the Crown and Ship ever saw him looking so dashing, then she would surely give him the very keys to the pantry.

Henry caught James looking his way, and waited for James to cross the deck to join him while the bottle neck at the base of the ladder cleared as everyone dispersed to their cabins.

“Mr Maples worked you all hard, did he?”

“As only a master gunner can,” Henry puffed, expression easy and open, and James felt a cad for being so shy of him this past week. “Feels good to finally have the sun on one's face, eh?”

“Oh go on, rub it in why don’t you.”

Henry grinned, and James tried to put on a casual air as he asked, “Might I have a word?”

“Of course, old boy,” Henry said brightly, but there was enough apprehensiveness in his eyes to put James a little on edge. He should have left this be. Should have let Henry be, and not have him stained by this unpleasant part of James. Nor should James expose himself to judgement like this, but he appeared to be doing so anyway. “Only, you will have to come with me. It was awful hot work and I shall have to change.”

James nodded and followed Henry forward to where the mates were berthed at the far end of the long line of officers cabins that ran down the port side of the deck. He hesitated in the doorway before stepping in to the what space there was between the hammock, washstand, sea chest, Henry himself, and the 12-pounder that was pulled in from the half open gunport. 

“What -” James began, then averted his eyes as Henry dragged his shirt off over his head. “What was said last week, the unpleasantness that caused the tussel…”

“Not to worry,” Henry said cheerfully as he bent to wet a flannel in his basin. “Wilson told me about Malta.”

James’ mind whirled, cold creeping into his stomach. “What?”

“Some youthful disagreement? Those do tend to fester rather,” Henry explained sagely as he scrubbed at his armpits. “Although I do not know what sort of French way you are supposed to be doing things.” He paused in his ablutions, expression taking on the hardness that he commanded gun crews with. “You are not a papist are you?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well then,” Henry said brightly, and crouched to search through his sea-chest. “I am prepared to rise above all spats and flung insults if you are. Gentlemanly thing to do, eh? Shan’t think the Navy would like it if it’s prized gunnery officers started duelling and all that.”

James nodded, leaning one way to avoid a flailing arm as Henry pulled a fresh shirt on, then backed up against the cannon when Henry slipped past him peer out of the door. Satisfied by what he saw, he turned back to James, a different sort of seriousness on his face as he placed his hand, swamped by the undone cuff of his sleeve, onto his hip. “I have heard enough insinuations about the _ways_ of the French to gather what was meant by, well, what was meant by _that_. Never mind how Charlewood shook his fist at that disagreeable fellow.”

James did not look away from Henry’s gaze, raising his chin slightly in the hope that he would not look afraid of what Henry was going to say next. 

”You are my friend,” Henry said uncertainly. “And a wholly decent fellow who has been nothing but kind to me. I hold that to be what is important in a fellow, above any insinuation or rumour. Even if you were to be a papist.”

James blinked, his laugh coming out timid and unreliable as Henry let out a sigh of relief before grinning at him.

“Not mattering if I were a papist. I would not have taken you for such a radical, Henry.”

“Takes all sorts, I suppose,” Henry shrugged, not stepping away as he turned his attention to the buttons on his cuffs. “I hope I do not overstep the mark by calling you my friend, old boy.”

“I should be a fool to think so,” James said after a pause. “I should be glad to count you as one. You are a fine friend to have, Henry.” James reached out and took his hand in a firm grip, feeling rotten that he had given Henry any reason to doubt how highly he thought of him.

“Capital,” Henry announced, taking James’ hands in both of his and squeezing hard. He finally stepped away, a fist on both of his hips as he gave a contented sigh before turning to peer into the looking glass hanging from the hull as he ran wet fingers though his hair. 

“Why on earth are you rushing to dress, Henry?” James asked after watching him a moment. “You do not have the watch, do you?”

“Well Jam - Fitzjames,” Henry said, grey eyes looking at James out of the mirror. “I have heard it whispered that the cook is making a pudding for supper.”

James laughed, and went to perch on the solid wooden wheel of the cannon so he could lean around Henry’s arm to look at him. “You might call me James you know. You already allow me to call you Henry. Ned has even been known to call me Jas.”

“Oh, thank you, James.”

“Of course,” James said, leaning in closer. “And, what if I were to suggest thievery and bribes in the matter of the pudding?”

Henry turned to face him, mischief apparent in every line of his face. “My fine fellow. There is very little I would not do for the glory of a good pudding.”

#### * ***** *

“Now. Now see here -” Charlewood said in the unsteady way of the inebriated as he pitched forward to look around James and towards Henry, surprisingly narrow hands gripping tightly on to the edge of the harbour wall they were all sitting upon as if he thought he might tip headfirst off it. “We were half convinced the Ottomans _had_ no women, so few did we ever see. An - and then -- ” Charlewood widened his eyes and blew out a great breath. An action that had James laughing so much he kicked his legs against the stone work, and Henry hoped no captain or commander came their way because each of their bilges were full right up with claret.

“And then the consul’s wife of Baghd - the Baghdad consul's... the consul's wife came aboard with her Armenian ladies,” Charlewood continued. “And being good Christians they were allowed to be unveiled in our presence. I tell you Ves… Veh - Vesconde.”

“Now see here!” Henry cried. “Jas here can manage the Le --”

“Le _Le_ ,” James muttered to himself, and then laughed again.

“- and the ‘conte’ at the end, and I would thank you to do the same, sir!”

“Quite right, old chap,” Charlewood blustered, sitting up very straight as he pronounced. “Quite right. Vescon-TUH.”

“Much obliged.”

“Vescond - frightful,” James murmured. “With the ‘e’ I am surprised it was not turned into Vescon-dy.”

“I thank the good Lord for his mercy,” Henry grumbled, watching James hop off the wall, listing slightly on his ridiculous legs before turning to face them. He slipped his hands deep in his pockets, the distant tavern lamps from The Hard lighting the merry look on his face and the drunken shine in his dark eyes as they turned to Henry.

“Vescondee,” he giggled. “Dundas Vescondas.”

It was such a ridiculous arrangement of syllables that Henry had to tip his head back and laugh, half noticing Charlewood’s slightly bemused smile.

“T’is a better name that James Fitzjames!” James protested, something about the tone of his voice lessening Henry’s amusement.

“It is economical, Jas,” he said, looking to Charlewood who nodded blearily.

“I am economical,” James sighed. “While you are Henry Thomas Dundas Vescondas… Dundy Vescondy.”

“Dundy?” Henry snorted. “Good lord.”

“Dundy and Jas!” James grinned, smacking Henry on the leg, and he felt a silly bubble of affection for the rascal.

“Bloody hell,” Charlewood shook his head, regarding them both with a hazy, drunken gaze. “I should keep that quiet, lest the names stick!”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> have some friendship in this trying time


End file.
